


Father's Day

by cactusnell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cactusnell/pseuds/cactusnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock visits his  father, with a surprise for his special day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Father's Day

It was the third Sunday in June, and Sherlock Holmes had stayed in his bed rather longer than was his usual habit. He had just finished a case, and had collapsed into the sheets the night before, totally exhausted and overdue for a long rest. But now he was awakened by the sound of an incoming text message from DI Greg Lestrade.

NEED YOU AT A CRIME SCENE. 17 MARLOES RD - LESTRADE

I’M SLEEPING - SH

NO YOU’RE NOT. YOU’RE TEXTING - LESTRADE

POINT TAKEN. ON MY WAY - SH

Sherlock dressed quickly and headed out, hoping that this wouldn’t take long. Usually the detective would have been excited by the prospect of an interesting case, but not today. Today he had plans. When he arrived at the scene he was greatly relieved to find a rather obvious case of a burglary gone wrong. Many of the tiny flats along the street had been converted to holidays lets. These were ripe pickings for local thieves. Tourists always had such interesting things with them, and the thieves knew that Metropolitan police were often at a loss when it came to following up with victims who would soon leave the country. But this thief had miscalculated the vulnerability of his victim, it seemed, as said victim had hurled him out of a second floor window. It had taken police some little while to figure just how the body had appeared on the roof of a parked car, but it was a simple matter of trajectory and force, and soon the appropriate window was found, wide open in the warm midsummer air. It seemed to be a simple matter of self defense, until Sherlock noticed the physical similarities between the two, and the fact that the American tourist’s accent seemed a bit off. A quick examination showed that the dead local burglar was, in fact, wearing clothes all manufacture in the USA. This led to further questions, and deductions, until it was ascertained that the corpse was the tourist, and the “tourist” was the burglar, trying to pull yet another fast one. Case closed. At least as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned. Barely a three. And as he took his leave, the detective couldn’t stop himself from commenting on Lestrade’s sartorial splendor.

“Nice tie, Gavin.”

“The name is Greg, as you well know. And I think it’s a lovely tie!” The man from Scotland Yard was now toying with his garishly colored necktie, festooned with dancing monkeys.

“Ah, Father’s Day gift, then?”

“Of course it is. I doubt whether even our American tourist, there, would be caught dead wearing this thing if it weren’t!” The inspector stole a glance at the corpse as it was being carried away, tipped his hat, and muttered, “No offense, mate!”

“I’m sure none was taken, Grant. At least, not in his present condition. And may I ask which of your spawn gifted you with such a…” And for once, Sherlock found himself at a slight loss for words.

“My daughter, Katie. I used to call her my little monkey, see, ‘cause she loved to climb all over everything. She’s fifteen now, and all she wants to climb all over is her boyfriend! But I think it was a nice thought, you know, giving me this thing, with all the little monkeys on it.” The DI once again played with the tie, studying the garish colors. “Either that, or she could really hate me!”

Sherlock snorted a laugh, “Console yourself with the thought that perhaps she just has very bad taste, Gary!” And with that, he took his leave, making his way to his brother Mycroft’s home in Belgravia. It was rapidly approaching noon, the hour appointed for their departure to the countryside, but, since the house was just under two miles distant, he knew he could make it in good time. He was walking at a steady but easy pace when he heard his mobile now signal an incoming call, from one John Watson. Since John well knew his preference for texting, he was curious as to what he would think required an actual conversation.

“John”

“Sherlock.”

“John, you called me, remember?”

 

“Yes, Sherlock, I do remember. I was merely trying to return your greeting with equal warmth.”

“Well, in that case, you have succeeded admirably. What do you want?”

“Just calling to see if you’ve changed your mind about joining us for brunch, mate. It is Father’s Day, and you are Claire’s godfather…”

“Yes, and when it is godfather’s day, I may think about joining you!”

“Sherlock, Claire adores you, and will miss you…”

“Claire, while obviously above average, will hardly realize, at her tender age, whether I am there or not…”

 

“Mary is making her famous pancakes…”

“Mary’s pancakes are infamous, not famous, so they are hardly an inducement to my joining you for the festivities.” Sherlock hesitated before continuing. “John, enjoy your first Father’s Day with your family. I know you really don’t believe me, but I do, indeed, have plans. I shall tell you all about it tomorrow.”  
“Well, Sherlock, if you’re sure…”

“I am, John. I will talk to you tomorrow. Goodbye!” And, in a manner which may have been considered rude in others, but which in Sherlock was simply normal, he disconnected without waiting for a response.

Molly Hooper was already at Mycroft’s home, having gone there directly from church. Molly was not a particularly regular churchgoer, but she always wanted to attend services on Father’s Day, in memory of her deceased parent, who used to hold her hand as he walked her through the churchyard. She really didn’t know if her father, in some afterlife, gained any comfort at all from her small observance, but she knew that she did. Molly and Mycroft had become great friends during Sherlock’s two year “death”, bonded by secret keeping and caring. If Sherlock felt that he neither needed, nor wanted, a big brother, Molly certainly had no such compunctions. She found she responded easily to Mycroft’s innate sense of protectiveness, and even kindness. Traits which less astute people tended to miss. She and Anthea, too, had become close, bonding over red wine and nights complaining about the Holmes men. The only difference being, during all those nights, Anthea had her Mycroft, and vice versa. Anthea would have been here this afternoon, but she was in Portsmouth, spending time her own aging father, who believed her to be personal assistant to a minor functionary of the British government, not the center of the world to one of the most powerful men in England. Everybody had their secrets, it seems.

“Molly, someday you must explain to me just how you persuaded my brother to join us on our annual excursion.” Mycroft said with a bit of a laugh. For the two years during which Sherlock was among the missing, Mycroft had, as it were, adopted his pathologist. As they grew closer, he pulled her more and more into his family life. For Mycroft, did, indeed, have a family life. He visited his parents regularly, but especially on holidays. Christmas, Mother’s Day, and, of course, Father’s Day. And he tended to invite Molly along on these occasions, knowing that she had no family to speak of. Since his brother’s resurrection, Mycroft had also invited him, but, until today, his rather aloof brother had demurred. He could only ascribe such a change of heart to the gentle woman who sat in his sitting room sipping coffee with him.

“It really wasn’t a hard sell, Mycroft. I asked, he said ‘yes’! I know he has something special he wants to tell your father. And your mother, too, but it is Father’s Day, you know.” When Molly spoke, she had a mysterious twinkle, which made Mycroft suddenly suspicious about what he could have possibly missed. Since the whole faux Moriarty thing had been settled, to his brother’s everlasting advantage and his own great relief, Mycroft had relaxed a bit. Sherlock was still protected, of course, but the more relaxed nature of this protection and surveillance had left Mycroft more in the dark than he had been in years. There was something going on, and Molly Hooper, it seems, was privy to it. It had been quite a while since “the British government” had felt so out of the loop and, truth be told, he was rather enjoying the suspense. It had been a long time since anything his brother did had surprised him.

Mycroft Holmes was just glancing at the clock on the mantle, ready to make a disparaging remark about the lateness of the hour, when his younger brother burst into the room. “Ready to go? I see the car waiting at the curb. Mustn’t keep the parents waiting!” And with that, he shepherded his brother and his pathologist out of the sitting room and into the waiting vehicle.

The ride to the Holmes rather large cottage in the country was about ninety minutes, but passed relatively quickly. Since his latest brush with death, Sherlock had seemed more alive than ever before. His conversation was easier, his smile more genuine. He seemed a bit more like the child who grew up in these rolling hills of the Sussex countryside, reserved and guarded, perhaps, but open with those he considered friends, and more willing to make those friends. But quite a bit taller, Mycroft though with a snicker. The trip passed pleasantly, Sherlock regaling them with his latest exploits, interspersed with Molly’s gruesomely humorous tales of life in the morgue. The two were meant for one another, Mycroft thought, and not for the first time. Too bad that so far only one of them had figured it out!

When they arrived at the cottage, both Holmes brothers stood awkwardly as their parents embraced them, but both smiled, if a bit stealthily. Molly, of course, was not so stoic, giving herself over entirely to the affectionate embraces of the elder Holmes’, and returning it in kind. Mrs. Holmes then swatted her elder son’s arm, saying, “You’d best call Anthea. She seemed a bit concerned that you had not already arrived.”

“I shall phone her immediately, Mummy. It is no small matter to have a trained assassin ‘concerned’, as it were!” Mycroft excused himself as he pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He needed to talk to Anthea to see if she had any idea what was going on with his brother. But he returned to the family gathering none the wiser.

The group had adjourned to the back garden, where Violet and Molly were in the processing of setting out a grand cream tea. Fruited scones, jam, clotted cream, and gallons of tea, it would seem. This would be enough to hold the group until the evening meal at the delightful pub in the nearby village. Violet and Siger Holmes settled down at the table, happy that, for the first time in ages, their two sons were actually sitting at a table together, conversing in normal tones, and stuffing their faces with clotted cream. The last time this had happened it had ended rather messily when young Will had flung a spoonful of the cream at his elder brother, who returned it in kind, and Siger smeared some strawberry jam on his wife’s nose, only to lick it off himself, taking far too long to do so in his sons’ estimation. Violet suddenly noticed that one of her boys was looking rather studiously at spoon and a bowl of cream, and eyeing his brother with hostile intent.

“William, don’t you dare!”

“Really, Mummy, I don’t know what you’re talking about…” But the detective was halted in mid-sentence by the soft plop of a rather large mound of cream landing behind his left ear,

“Really, brother, I believe I owed you that!” Mycroft said archly as Molly collapsed into gales of laughter. “Now, I suggest that we hide the jam from Papa, as I feel that neither of us are open to yet another extended display of connubial affection.”

Violet was still amazed at the rather good-natured teasing going on, when Mycroft reached for a gift box which had been laying next to his chair and presented it to her husband. “Happy Father’s Day, Papa. I hope you enjoy it!”

Siger Holmes ripped into the wrappings, finally retrieving a tee shirt, which read “Chemists do it periodically”. “Lovely, Mycroft, I can wear it when your mother wears the one you gave her for Mother’s Day. ‘Mathematicians do it by the numbers.’ We’ll cause quite a stir in the village!”

Sherlock, not wanting to be outdone by his brother, decided it was time to present his gift, so he reached into his breast pocket to retrieve an envelope. It was a childishly colorful card, from a grandson to his grandfather, and inside was a print of a rather unreadable ultrasound.

“To the untrained eye, it may seem like an alien lifeform, but Molly assures me that that is, indeed, your grandchild. I took the liberty of identifying him as a boy, simply because that is what Molly wants, though she won’t admit to it. Anyway, there’s a fifty/fifty chance that I am correct, in any case.”

Siger was staring at the tiny picture of the even tinier being. His grandchild. Violet was openly weeping, and hugging Molly. Mycroft was sitting back in his chair looking over at Sherlock’s smug smile, and thinking about how he could have overlooked a development as significant as this one. Well, as his brother always said, you always miss something! He was still considering how it had happened right under his nose, when his younger brother addressed him, “Well, Mycroft, you’ll have to think of something besides a humorous tee shirt to top that!”

“Undoubtedly, brother. But I’m hoping I can at least match it by Christmas.” Mycroft smiled, the competitor in him awakened, as he phoned his Anthea to make sure she was on board with his latest project, hoping against hope that twins ran in her family.

**Author's Note:**

> Visit my blog at HooperandHolmes.wordpress.com


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